Postcard - The Madonna's Night on the Town

Trastevere's Festa de' Noantri (Procession of the Madonna del Carmine)
is on the Saturday after the 16th of July. Trastevere is a neighborhood in
Rome, across the Tiber from the historic center.

The nonnas press in with seemingly innocent, yet insistent, pushing;
inching closer to the barred doors of Sant'Agata. Their faces are expectant,
but in the tired, knowing way of women who have seen this festa every
year for generations. Whether in stylish fashion or baggy widow's dresses
and sturdy shoes, they wait as both pilgrims and judges. This festa will, of course, be the best ever, but it will also be compared to the decades
of past enactments. Will the Blessed Virgin appear on time? Will the bearers
stumble on the stairs under the load of the Madonna? The nonnas around
me feel no discomfort or guilt about their critical judgment juxtaposed with
their adoration of the Virgin and her festa . both are signs of their
devotion.

The evening is gold with the low filtered sun. But the heat is beyond shimmering
- everything in the piazza is flat with the heat. Here and there a nonna waves a paper fan to stir a breeze, sometimes for a grandchild. I'm grateful
when they stir the air around me. I'm at the front of the crowd, at the foot
of the steps of Sant'Agata, but crushed against the backs of the local mayor
and the honor guard dressed out in cream suits with black ties, gold braid,
white "Bobby" helmets, and white gloves. They're proudly refusing to melt,
though the temperature hovers around the mid-90's even at 7pm. The Carabinieri
have more practice looking crisp in their dark Armani uniforms, even when
standing on ancient piazza stones that radiate the day's heat. Just another
security detail for them, except that tonight they're guarding the Madonna.

The men of Trastevere hold aloft religious banners and crucifixes, waiting
to lead the procession. The yellow and white Vatican colors hang limply from
stone windowsills in the surrounding apartments. And there, amid all the holy
images, I glimpse red and gold ribbons hung from a tall standard topped with
the proud Roman eagle, and the inscription SPQR - the Senate and the People
of Rome. The Madonna may belong to the world, but tonight she walks in the
everlasting city as a citizen of Rome.

The local bishop arrives in his brocade finery, ready to lead the procession.
All around me, the Trasteverini are murmuring about their Virgin. Yes, this
virgin is theirs; she was found in the Tiber River by fisherman in the 1500's
(or maybe the 1800's; it depends on which version of the legend you believe)
and installed at Sant'Agata. And once a year, she ventures out into the neighborhood
to bless the locals and visit the churches of Trastevere.

The faithful nonnas are restless. Fans move faster. Subtle waves
move through the crowd as hot, tired feet shift weight and shift back again.
Now the pleasant murmurs of neighborly conversation gain an edge. "Maria
- Santa Maria." Where is the Madonna? Why is she so late this year? Of
course, the Romans are always late, but this delay is getting bad marks from
the judges. The pilgrims want their Madonna.

A door of the church opens and the crowd turns, but it's just a white-cloaked
official sent out to confer with the honor guard and the Carabinieri about
whether the sea of people needs to be pushed back to make more room for the
giant baldacchino that houses the Virgin. The murmurs in the crowd
get more strident. "Porca miseria, these men are delaying the Madonna's
journey. Do they think they can keep Her all to themselves?" Keep her from
her most devoted daughters? The daughters who have adored her since they could
walk, who have prayed the Hail Mary over more illnesses, troubles, wayward
children, wandering husbands, and backsliding relatives than any man, except
of course Il Papa (the Pope). The tart smell of overheating bodies packed
too closely together is now rising in the still air. There is no escape from
the crush.

"Santa Maria!!" Suddenly the doors are open! Four altar boys on
the steps ignite smoke pillars, and yellow and white smoke pours from either
side of the doors nearly obscuring the eight white-robed men who slowly bear
their precious load into the piazza. They silently struggle to settle the
weight of Her on their foam shoulder pads, steeling themselves for the two-hour
procession. The nonnas let out a cheer of admiration. La Madonna is shrouded in smoke, but as she moves into the piazza I can catch brief glimpses
of the bronze baldacchino, the white satin dress, and the gold crown
above a finely carved face. And then the very air begins to glitter. High
atop the church are two metal tubes, and as though someone has reversed a
celestial vacuum cleaner, they are spewing out inch-long rectangles of glittery
foil. Silver on one side, gold on the other. The piazza becomes a kaleidoscope
of swirling glitter and plumes of smoke. Between elbowing their neighbors
to get a better view of the Virgin, and sending a year's worth of supplications
to this visible form of their dear Lady, the nonnas and the nuns in
the crowd scurry and stoop to gather handfuls of the holy glitter from the
ancient stone pavers. They press the pieces of foil into the sweaty hands
of their grandchildren to bring good luck during the coming year.

The Madonna follows the standard of Rome, and the local priests and bishop,
as she makes her way down the Via della Lungaretta to start her tour of Trastevere.
Four crucifixes guard the four corners of her platform. And behind her, a
small band plays some melodic Catholic hymn. As she moves away, I wonder if
Italian Catholics have hymns? If so, they must be love songs to the Madonna,
not the great martial hymns of the Lutherans or the come-to-Jesus spirituals
of the Baptists. Nevertheless, the Virgin is being serenaded on her journey.

This is her once-a-year night on the town. Her chance to see the world
outside of her own little church, to watch her neighbors celebrate, and to
take in the evening colors of Rome and the enticing smells of porchetta and carbonara. For two hours she'll see and hear so much more than
the dour priests and worried supplicants that fill her usual days in Sant'Agata.
And after her tour she'll rest in San Crisogono, a grand basilica across the
piazza. Eight days from now she'll take a boat ride down the Tiber and then
be carried back to her spot next to the high altar in Sant'Agata.

As I leave the procession and say goodbye to the Virgin, I imagine her
face is lit with youthful exuberance as she begins her big night on the town.